


lick you like a crisp packet

by Amber



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chocolate Box Exchange, Chocolate Box Exchange 2019, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-23 10:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17682125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: "Do you want..." Baz pauses. "I'd like to go down on you." Simon goes still in shock, but Baz seems to misinterpret it as fear and adds, offended: "I'll be careful of the teeth, obviously.""Yes!" Simon says hurriedly. "Yes, I'm not even worried about the teeth."He's a little worried about the teeth.





	lick you like a crisp packet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Blue Escapist (theblueescapist)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblueescapist/gifts).



Simon has never really been any good at crosswords. They'd started appearing as homework in his third year: they're supposed to be good for untangling language, learning about nuance, the cryptic especially. But Simon's memory is imperfect, and he isn't really a word person, so the answers always feel just on the tip of his tongue. Penny loves them, though, so the paper is always open to it, left half filled in and abandoned. Simon peruses it idly as he eats his breakfast, just for something to look at.

This is actually his second breakfast: he's turned into something of a hobbit, and without his great and terrible magic to burn all that energy away he's actually started to put meat on his bones. Living independently means he can have as much food as he wants — or, as much as he can afford, which with his leprechaun gold is a lot. Sometimes he has black days where he doesn't cook anything, but this morning is golden, rare London sun streaming through the high windows of he and Penny's flat, and he's made himself French toast and bacon and eggs and banana fritters and is tucking in.

He's sort of nervous-eating. What he should be doing is getting out of his dressing gown and plaid pajamas, but Baz saw him every morning for seven years when they shared a room, so probably it won't matter that much if he isn't dressed yet. Their actual date, the one where they plan to leave the house and do something together, that's not until later this afternoon, but he's expecting Baz this morning because... well, not living together hasn't really given them much distance. It just means they can't be all over each other while Penny is home.

Today Penny is not home; she's in America visiting her boyfriend. For a week.

Fuck, he's so nervous. 

It's not that he hasn't... he isn't a virgin. But that was with Agatha, and it was nice, but it was a little awkward even though they have all the complimentary, um, parts. He isn't sure what he and Baz are supposed to do, even if he definitely had a serious google, isn't sure what he wants there beyond... more. More kissing. More _than_ kissing. And a long swathe of time with the flat to themselves feels like that would be the best time to make More happen, so his mind keeps turning the possibility over like a worry stone. Not just the sexuality stuff, either, stupid little things, like, if he lets Baz um. Put it inside him. Then what the fuck is he going to do with his tail?

None of that is really on his face when he answers the door, kettle whistling in the background for his third cup of tea. He hasn't done the washing up yet (Penny usually spells it, and he's half hoping Baz will do the same) and he looks a bit of a mess, but it's a bachelor left to his own devices kind of mess rather than sinking into a deep depression mess.

"It's still so weird seeing you in denim," is the first thing out of his mouth as he looks at Baz in his tight dark jeans, and then amends it quickly with an abashed but forthright: "Um. You look good, though." Very good. It's like — the way neurologists say you can't remember feeling pain properly, it's never created in your memory with quite the same sharpness as the real experience, to protect you. Simon can never remember how attractive Baz is until he's right there before him.

Baz sniffs. "Should I keep wearing the Watford uniform indefinitely? For the sake of your tender sensibilities? I warn you now, I draw the line at twenty-five." His eyes roam the room, and it's obvious he's evaluating if the level of mess is concerning or only worth judgement. Seems to decide on the latter as he sweeps into the kitchen to, yes, thank god, do the dishes — "Bunce will throw you out on your ear." 

God, he's missed this. Baz sweeping into his life all scornful and melodramatic and finicky. "I was going to get to the eventually!" he blusters, untruthfully, about the dishes. It's not like Baz is washing them by hand, and he'd bloody well have to, and he's no clue how really — do they even have detergent? So they've just been relegated to the 'later' column. He watches them get magicked clean with no little enjoyment once he's taken the kettle off the stove; it's not just the effort saved, either, being around magic is still one of his favourite things, something he really misses about Watford.

Simon may have lost his magic, but he hasn't actually lost any of the charisma that came with all that power. Magicians are still drawn to him, Normals are still turned off. So when he looks intensely at Baz, it's _really_ intense, a look that flays to the bone even though he doesn't particularly mean to. And Baz looks back, inscrutable as always. Steps in close to him, careful even now, touches his waist. The fabric gets crumpled up under his fingertips and a flash of bare, hot skin brushes them.

He pulls in a little intake of breath: "You're warm," he says. 

Simon imagines a burn seared there like the one left behind by the cross. "Right," he says about his warmth, "That's— I mean— yes- yes." What? God, why does he ever speak. "Just — would you like some tea?"

It's a bit of a desperate question, because otherwise he's going to kiss Baz, and then he's never going to stop kissing him, and there should, surely, be more to their relationship than tonguing into each other's mouths. Well, there's nearly dying together, but that hasn't happened in a while. The point is, that's why the date; he wants to spend time with Baz. Not that they don't, but usually Penny's there and then it's like hanging out with friends, or Penny's not there and they're taking advantage of that, and he's a terrible boyfriend but he still wants to try to be. A boyfriend.

At some point in this whirlwind of thought, however, he pressed all back up into Baz's space, muscling right into it and slipping his arms around his shoulders, looking up at him. Pretty much regardless of how Baz answers about the tea he's going to ignore it. Fuck the tea. His tongue dashes nervously across his lower lip, sandy lashes fluttering slightly.

"Not really," Baz says, thankfully, and he's pressing back just as intently, the two of them drawing together like magnets. His expression, on another person, might be sheepish, like he gets that it's a breach of all decorum ever to just sweep into your boyfriend's flat and proceed immediately to kissing, but here they are, all close and touching in the middle of the kitchen. "How're things?" he manages, like some last ditch attempt to have even a modicum conversation that isn't about dishes.

"Um. How're...? They're. Yeah, great. Fine." is Simon's eloquent as always response. He blinks a couple of times, trying to shake off his distraction and come up with an actual answer. "Been a bit, you know... I keep thinking, oh, I'll leave that until Penny comes back, but what if he doesn't come back? She's going to propose, you know, she's been practicing the spells for weeks. Though she's had to keep it quiet because they can refuse your visa at the border if they think you're going to get married. That's what she said, anyway."

He trails off. That wasn't really about how he's been at all.

"There's no way Bunce will just toddle off and stick you with the rent," Baz reassures him. Or Simon knows he means it as reassurance, that he may not like Penelope, but he trusts her, or, he trusts her with Simon. "At worst she'll have you packed up and shipped to America. In a box with holes in it." Like Simon is himself a pet of some kind.

And then with that brush against an insult out of the way, Baz just leans in and—

It's not really out of nowhere; Simon was on the verge of giving up and kissing him throughout basically that whole spiel, but he'd muddled through instead — and Baz had waited patiently. That right there makes Simon want to kiss him, though if he has a complex over his verbal fumbling it is in part down to Baz's schoolyard mocking as much as, you know, nearly eight years of education based heavily on language.

He opens his mouth for it, just, straight away. Maybe with a little more finesse — strange for Baz to be the clumsy one. He does that, he knows. He, Simon. Causes his preternaturally graceful boyfriend to get all overeager. The thought sends a warm rush through him, and one of his hands slides up to cup the left side of Baz's face, fingers splayed. Minimal guidance: it's not really necessary when the kiss slips into something softer all on its own. Slips into another kiss — two, three, oh, he's going to lose track. He always loses track.

All of his earlier nerves seem a bit ludicrous and irrelevant so long as their mouths are glued together, but they can't actually kiss indefinitely, probably, even if there's still so much to explore of Baz's mouth, the way teeth can get involved, or not, the different types of tongue brushing, the tension in his jaw— no. It definitely has to end at some point, and then nerves thud rudely right back into his chest alongside all the happiness. 

Baz's mouth is all red; it's hard not to just reattach to it. "This is my _kitchen_ ," Simon says stupidly, meaning, it's weird to be kissing like that here and they should go somewhere else but kind of just sounding like he's showing Baz a room he's seen plenty of times already.

"I see you've mastered object permanence," Baz observes, just kind of casually stroking the side of Simon's neck with one thumb, "Will you be moving on to colors and shapes next?" Which is really the sort of thing Simon has come to expect from him, makes him want to kiss Baz again just for being a git, but the tips of Baz's ears suddenly flush and he says, in what must be the closest his supercilious tones can get to contrition, "—Force of habit, sorry."

Simon laughs, because how can he not. "It's. Fine," he says, not sure how to express that he doesn't at all mind it, that he fell for Baz being a prick as much as anything else. Not to mention, at this point everything from teasing to full-blown insults sounds affectionate coming from Baz's mouth, so Simon shrugs off the apology, kisses that sharp jaw a couple of times for reassurance's sake before stepping back from the zero distance between them. "Do you want to come to bed with me?" he offers, which he meant sort of innocently but it comes out so forward that he wishes he'd tripped over his own words a bit more. Tries to clarify as he runs his hands down from Baz's shoulders over his chest. "Just that, I'm dressed for it. You're not, um, particularly." Though Simon could help with that.

Baz looks down at himself, like he's having not dissimilar thoughts re: Simon helping him, since dark denim and a smart green jumper aren't exactly snuggly. It's probably Baz just doesn't own clothes that don't suggest he's wearing armor, since even the ostensibly soft top makes him look that way. "I could undress for it," he points out dryly, and Simon has to fight not to giggle because he's so! Nervous!

"We don't have to..." he tries to find, if not eloquence, at least clarity, because this is important, looks at Baz with his brow all pinched. "We don't have to do anything you don't want."

"Snow," says Baz, somewhere between self-deprecation and despair. Corrects himself: "Simon," a little softer, getting used to that name in his mouth. "You're all I want."

Simon's hands have reached the bottom of the green jumper now, play with the hem of it in agitation. "Then maybe. I could undress you?"

In response, Baz shifts so his arms are lifted, inviting, and Simon starts in on it. They're still in the kitchen for some fucking reason, and when Simon tosses the item of clothing aside one of the sleeves end up in the sugarpot and neither of them look or care. Skin, all Simon wants is skin, pale and a little cool and his, a canvas to do with as he will. He puts a mouth on Baz's shoulder, bites; they both make a noise, though Baz's is higher. 

"Oh, Crowley," Baz says then, maybe a bit prickly over the kind of sound that just emerged from his throat. "Bed, Snow."

"Sorry, yes. You're distracting," Simon says, "That's all."

"Everything's distracting to you," points out Baz, and leaves his lovely green jumper draped half on the counter in order to drag Simon along to the bedroom.

It's both more and less of a mess: Simon doesn't spend a lot of time in here and he did have to pick up after himself at least a big at Watford... but Penny doesn't really come in here at all so it sort of accumulates clutter, peeking out of drawers and from beneath the bed. Baz sidesteps it all neatly as dancing. Peels down his jeans elegantly, which is probably good, Simon would have made a tangle of it. Drapes himself onto the bed, pale skin amidst the dark blue sheet set like something out of Simon's wet dreams. Simon climbs on after him, wrestles him further down into the mattress because he likes the physicality of it, rolling around in the sheets with Baz — mussing him up a bit, all that.

It's not the first time he's felt Baz hard against his leg, though Simon tries not to consider too hard that Baz must have fed to be so insistently flushed with arousal. It isn't even the first time he's slid a palm down to grind over it through the clothes; that kind of awful, fantastic tease is pretty standard when they're messing around. But they never take it any further. So this time it feels deeply transgressive to slip his fingers beneath the waistband, searching until he meets skin in a way that turns Baz' muffled please noises into a dark, deep groan.

Simon thinks he might swear, but he isn't sure, because Baz has pressed his face into the pillow.

"Hey," he coaxes, kissing his jaw. "Baz. Look at me when I touch you?" The request is soft, counterpoint to the brash way they touch each other, and Baz emerges with dark eyes and, oh. His fangs have popped.

Another thing Simon isn't good at, along with crosswords, is being gentle in emotional moments. He doesn't flinch, at least, but he takes his hand out of Baz's underwear. Baz is watching him sharply, anticipatory — of pain more than sex, ready for some kind of rejection. But Simon literally has wings, and he flexes them, leans in. Kisses Baz's predator mouth until it goes pliant for him again.

"Do you think, Snow," he says, when Simon lets him catch his breath, "We should talk about what we're doing?"

"Nah," says Simon, kissing his shoulder.

Baz snorts, but he knows how Simon feels about words. "What if I talk, and you just grunt as the mood takes you," he suggests, and Simon bites him, sharp enough it would have broken skin in the reverse, and Baz is startled and a little guilty right up until Simon laughs.

"All right," he agrees, mouthing over Baz's collarbone. Nipping at his neck in a way that is more erotic to a vampire than he probably realizes.

"Right," says Baz, "Good. All right. I think — I think hands are all clear, wouldn't you say?"

"Hands?"

Baz answers by reaching between Simon's legs. "Using our hands."

Simon goes all breathless at the sudden touch, rocking his erection into Baz's palm. He likes this, imagines the two of them just jerking each other off, and nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, hands."

"Do you want..." Baz pauses. "I'd like to go down on you." Simon goes still in shock, but Baz seems to misinterpret it as fear and adds, offended: "I'll be careful of the teeth, obviously."

"Yes!" Simon says hurriedly. "Yes, I'm not even worried about the teeth." He's a little worried about the teeth. 

He's also a lot turned on, though, and he's not sure some of that isn't also because of the teeth.

Sometimes Simon kind of worries that he's maybe a little bit kinky.

Anyway, he's at least on the same page as Baz now, with the talking, and he decides to just put it right out there: "Do you want to go all the way?"

Baz snorts, and Simon flushes. "Sorry," Baz says. "It's just, you had the same tone as when you offered me a cup of tea. Like, you don't really want to, but you think you ought to offer out of politeness?"

Which isn't totally inaccurate, and Simon doesn't say anything at first. Baz is still touching him, though, and his skin is still right there, and Simon kisses up his neck and to his mouth and soothes himself there. "Listen," he says, gruff, "I'm pretty new to all this. You know that." Dating Agatha, penetration had seemed like the be-all and end-all, but with Baz... with Baz even lying around and talking about this like it was their biology homework was kind of satisfyingly hot.

"Let's just stick with hands and mouths for now," Baz says, apparently making an executive decision for both of them. Which is also kind of hot. Crowley.

"I'm um, yeah," agrees Simon eloquently. "I could be on board with that. I mean I am. I'm very — that sounds great." A beat, both of them just looking at each other with increasing heat rising between them. "And teeth," Simon adds.

Baz cocks an eyebrow. And then he _smiles_.

When he leans in, Simon expects to be bit, braces for it, but instead Baz flutters the lightest brush of lips along his jugular. When he uses his teeth, it's with such care, such delicacy, that Simon thinks he'd do himself more injury with a butter knife. Still, he's very aware that Baz could use those sharp fangs to tear his throat out — wouldn't, but could. The barely there pressure of them shivers ice and fire along his skin, and Simon moans and drags his foot along Baz' calf and bares his throat for more.

A blunt nip to his collarbone, and Baz proceeds downwards, occasionally letting that razor edge threaten Simon's skin sweetly, and his pulse picks up and his heart races, a little scared in his lizard brain and liking it. "You always did like to say I was a bit in love with danger," he laughs breathlessly, and then, "Oh," arching into Baz' mouth as he sucks at a nipple, explores his hands and mouth down Simon's torso.

Down, down, down, scattering possessive little marks across Simon's golden skin, licking from freckle to freckle; there are less down here, mostly just the occasional mole, but Baz seems to seek them out until he's joined the dots all the way to the one at the crease of Simon's hip, the very top of his pubic hair. His dick is so hard that when Baz pulls his briefs down it slaps up against his abdomen and he makes a soft noise at even that much skin on skin.

"Pretty even here," Baz says like he's complaining, long fingers wrapping pale around Simon's flushed length and stroking slowly down to the base. Simon's fairly sure his response is unintelligible, just helpless pleasured noise.

And then Baz applies his tongue.

"Fuck," Simon says, low and impassioned and terrified he's going to come too fast, because Baz is so gorgeous with his head ducked down to nuzzle his cock, and the hot wet stripe of sensation is dangerously good. "Oh fuck Baz please."

Baz glances up at that, expression like a smug cat, though there's something else shining in his eyes, possessive and wanting. "What was that, Snow?"

"I- uh. P-please?" Simon repeats, not sure if that's what he's supposed to say, but he must have got it right from Baz' reaction, eyes darkening in arousal, smile widening, grip tightening so that Simon mewls.

"Please what?" Baz asks.

"You're a git," Simon informs him in a rush, exhaling hard. "God. Please... your mouth." That's not a sentence. "Keep licking me."

Simon mostly phrases it like that because he can't bring himself to say anything filthier, but Baz seems to take it quite literally because he uses his tongue again, lapping up and down the shaft, around the head. His tongue is firm over the slit, and Simon is embarrassed because he can feel himself leaking precum with every aroused throb of his cock, and Baz must be able to taste it. 

"You're gonna... you're going to make me come," Simon gasps out, trying not to garble his words into oblivion. He's too turned on to worry that Baz is going to make fun of him for getting there so fast, but Baz just hums and parts his lips around the pink head of Simon's cock, lets it slide into the red of his mouth, and his teeth are right there, and he keeps moving his tongue and his hand, and when he sucks his razor cheekbones go hollow beneath them and it feels like he draws the orgasm up out of Simon, sharp release. He arches, cries out, and comes.

The long moments after that are just spent indulging in the sweet, selfish haze of pleasure that ebbs through his limbs, relaxing them. It's like eating butter by itself, or having a warm brick at his feet on a cold night, or napping after a long day of hard sports. But also nothing like any of those, pulse still up. His eyes are closed, and he's aware of what Baz is doing only by the sudden cool of his cock exposed to the air again. He hums so Baz knows he's still alive, lifts a limp hand and pets vaguely at where he thinks Baz's hair is. "Wow," he says.

Baz laughs, and Simon opens his eyes and looks at him, and he doesn't know what his own expression is doing but Baz's couldn't be called anything but soppy. That makes Simon smile. Belatedly, he realizes Baz isn't— Baz must have— "You swallowed?"

Baz tilts his head like a shrug. "At this point I'm hardly disgusted by bodily fluids," he points out, and Simon thinks of him gorging on blood and. Yeah, all right, that tracks. Probably his semen is nicer than what's inside a deer. He hopes.

"Sorry," he says, his own voice almost unrecognizably throaty. "I didn't mean to come so fast."

"It's fine," Baz says dismissively. "Do you really think this is the last time I'll have the opportunity to suck you? In fact, I think I'd like to have another go at it before this evening."

Simon groans and lets his head thunk back onto the pillow. Sex is the last thing his body wants right now, but he could swear his cock just twitched like it's already trying to plump harder again. "You're going to kill me. With your mouth."

"Ah, you've figured out my diabolical plan," Baz deadpans, coming up alongside Simon again. Cuddling into him, but a little stiffly, like — oh, of course, he's still hard, and trying to be considerate about it — something that he absolutely is _not_ when he just leans in and starts kissing again, and Simon, who has never satisfied his curiosity the more obvious way, gets to find out what his own come tastes like.

He takes a hold of Baz's hip and pulls him in close, gives him one muscled thigh to grind off on, bronze skin and light golden hair. His school sports days are behind him but he still keeps active when he can, is thinking about finding a regular team, so it isn't at all difficult to rock his leg in a slow, deliberate, circling rhythm. Steady pressure, and Baz is usually so cool-skinned and collected but right now he's running hot hot hot in Simon's arms.

When Simon reaches down and adds his hand into the mix, it isn't long until Baz shatters apart for him, face hidden as his body is wracked, spilling over Simon's thigh and fingers and wrist and groin. And, oh, he can see how addictive this is going to be, making Baz all wordless and vulnerable and overwhelmed, giving him so much pleasure he shakes with it. He keeps squeezing Baz's cock long after it's gone soft, and Baz whines but doesn't pull away, is temporarily devoid of all his sharp edges.

They come back, though. Simon only briefly gets to see his face all open before it shutters again, but there's something of that animal hedonism lurking behind Baz' eyes still, and Simon thinks he'd like to coax it out again, string it out, see how feral Baz would get just at the touch of Simon's skin on his own. 

"You're lovely," Simon says instead, and they nuzzle their faces together, letting the dust settle.


End file.
